


No Gentleman

by tomlinsuave



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco, The Brobecks
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, American Civil War, Beta Wanted, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 12:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15641052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlinsuave/pseuds/tomlinsuave
Summary: With the country on the brink of Civil War, Brendon Urie is busy being the beau of the antebellum South. Confident and defiant in a way that hurts everyone (including himself), Brendon finds someone who can uncover some genuine emotion in him: a rich outcast named Dallon Weekes.





	No Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> Strongly inspired by Gone With the Wind, except not nearly as good nor as angsty. For those like me who find it important to know the exact age of every character, right now I imagine Brendon to be about 18-20 and Dallon about 28-30
> 
> Also, everyone in this fic aside from Brendon and Dallon (and very briefly Pete Wentz) is both made up and essentially unimportant in the long run.

The year is 1861. The setting is New Orleans, the heart of the antebellum South. Abraham Lincoln has been inducted as president of the United States and the seven states of the South in turn have seceded to form the Confederacy. With the country on the brink of completely disintegrating, civilians are wrought with grief and anxiety.

“Which coat do you suppose suits me better?” Brendon Urie chooses to concern himself with more important matters. As there is a gathering soon at the Wentz Estate, he must choose an outfit that will positively emphasize his appearance while still retaining a sense of modesty.

“Are they not the same fit?” His older brother doesn’t share his values.

“Of course they are, Matthew! Imagine _me_ considering a coat that didn’t have my proper measurements. Oh, you must be outside your mind.” 

“Then what’s the difference?”

“The _color_.” He tugs meaningfully at the ends of the coat he’s wearing. “This is charcoal grey. It’s a quite neutral color, but it does go with my hat, should I choose to wear it.” He then takes the coat off, swiftly but carefully, and meticulously hangs it before putting on the second coat and scrutinizing himself in a full-length mirror. “ _This_ is navy blue,” he says, without turning back towards his brother, “while it may seem like an ordinary black coat, if you look closely enough you can see a hint of indigo dye. It also goes quite well with my shoes.” He pauses briefly. “And also I am simply enchanted by this color, I’m sure everyone else is too.” Brendon turns back to his brother. “Thank you for helping me, it would have been a coon’s age before I’d picked a coat on my own.”

“Any time.”

-

The Wentz Estate is remarkable primarily for the expansive mansion which it encompasses, but also for the benevolent nature of its residents. The parties that the Wentz family hosts are monthly, and the company they receive, of course, includes the most prosperous of socialites, but when it comes to the lower end of the guest list, reputation matters little.

Brendon Urie, however, has bigger plans than mingling with the proletariat. 

“Oh, darling, you look divine in that dress. Is that silk I see?” 

The girl giggles. “Yes, you’ve always had a nice eye Mr. Urie.” She gives him a coquettish glance. 

Brendon returns it. “Of course I do, since I am looking at you Miss…” He trails off, his eyes wandering over to another woman peering at him coyly. He sends a grin in return.

“Miller.”

“Pardon?”

“Miss Miller.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course I remember your name! Gosh, Miss Miller, what you must think of me, a man who can’t remember the name of the most beautiful girl at this most delightful function. Now, if you may excuse me.” Brendon leaves without listening to her response, but does grant her a charming smile as a substitute.

He makes his way past a group of men who are taller–but distinctly less attractive–than he in order to reach the woman who had attracted his attention. “Miss Margaret Chambers, to what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance at my humble abode?” he says, kissing her hand.

“Mr. Urie, you speak as if this wonderful estate is your own,” she giggles. 

“It isn’t my fault if my charms supercede that of our host. I think it’s high time that he hand the place over to me, at least during parties.”

“And just what might you do with it?”

Brendon puts a hand to his chin, an impressive impression of a man thinking. “I suppose the first thing I would do is dance with the most beautiful girl at this most delightful function,” he says as he takes Margaret’s hand and elegantly forces her into a waltz. She giggles again. 

“I would have thought you’d already promised a dance to half the girls here. Lord knows some of them have been aching for one with you.”

“Oh, no, of course not. You know what I did, Miss Chambers? Why, I told each one of those girls that I am reserved for Margaret and Margaret alone.” Brendon supposes that it’s not completely a lie, in some way, surely.

“Well, that is awfully kind of you.” She blushes. “You look very handsome with that set of whiskers.”

Brendon beams and brushes his sideburns, betraying his upcoming words. “No, no, next to you I think I must look like I’ve been chewed up and spit out.”

A silence lasts for about a minute until Margaret is inspired by their close proximity to spill some gossip. “Have you heard about the new man that Mr. Wentz invited?” Brendon shakes his head quickly, curious to hear more. “His name is Weekes and he came from the West–part of the Mormon settlement–and he’s richer than Croesus!”

Brendon is intrigued. “From the West? What’s he doing all the way down here?”

“Well, from what I hear, his parents sent him to study up in West Point, but then he got expelled for–” Margaret surveys her surroundings before leaning in to whisper “promiscuity.” 

Brendon gasps in surprise, but internally somewhat admires the mystery man for being able to sneak women onto the premises.

“I know!” Margaret continues. “So now he’s just been meandering across the South with an endless supply of money, since the Mormons rallied against him as soon as they heard what happened. I don’t blame them, to be honest with you. He sounds like a load of trouble to me.”

“And he’s here now?”

“Yes, one of the girls swears she saw him. He had a _gold watch_ , she said, and he didn’t even look like he was being very careful with it!”

Brendon hums. His interest is piqued. He stops their dance on an off beat. “Forgive me, but I’ve just remembered that I’d promised my brother that I would speak to him about a very important matter at this very hour. Now, if you may excuse me.”

-

Brendon continues to mingle with the rest of the female guests, but his charisma is duller than usual. Instead of training his eyes on any potential paramour, Brendon finds himself searching the crowd for an unfamiliar face–the elusive Mr. Weekes.

By the time that Mr. Wentz calls the entire mass of people outside for the barbecue, Brendon’s half-attempts at finding a lover and a particular stranger have both proven futile. For perhaps the first time at a Wentz party, Brendon Urie eats alone. He’d chosen an exceptional vantage point–atop a high hill in the corner of the yard from which he can see the entire congregation for all their esprit de corps. He saws his meat violently, hardly looking at his plate, as his eyes scan each individual table. 

“My, what is a gregarious young man like you doing all alone up here?”

Brendon jumps, and would have dropped his entire plate in the process were it not for his impeccable reflexes. He twists his neck to find the source of the voice behind him. He is then forced to lift his head–and lift it higher–in order to see the man’s face. 

“I assume you are Mr. Weekes.” Brendon states stoically as the the man sits down beside him. Brendon is thankful that he no longer has to crane his neck upward, but is still somewhat affronted that the two are not level. He situates himself in a superior place on the hill to gain the upper ground, while Mr. Weekes silently and amusedly watches him.

“I am.” He responds, now turned around to look at Brendon. “My name is Dallon Weekes. I would stand up to bow, but I wouldn’t want to ruin this seating situation that you’ve so deliberately set up.”

“Don’t patronize me, sir. From what I’ve heard, you are no gentleman.”

“I didn’t realize that you listen to rumor. Though, that does remind me, you never answered my original question. Why is it that a sociable young man like you is eating alone,” Dallon makes an emphatic gesture at their general surroundings, “and on the ground, I might add?”

“What makes you think I’m sociable? For all you know, I might be a recluse. I might always eat my meals alone, and you wouldn’t have the slightest clue. Oh, that would certainly be embarrassing for you, wouldn’t it, Mr. Weekes?”

“I’d wager that it would be more embarrassing for the fellow who eats all his meals alone.” Brendon huffs and Dallon takes that as a sign to continue. “I’d also wager that there is not a single guest at this estate who is unaware of your… conviviality. Or at least not a single maiden.” He smirks.

“And what is wrong with that?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong. I was simply supposing that you might have felt slighted, not having been introduced to a new guest and all. I was expecting to see you searching for me down there,” he says, pointing to where the rest of the guests are gathered.

Brendon laughs, nervous because his intentions are discovered, but he continues doing so as he realizes he can spin his reaction to have a more condescending tone. “Dear lord, you have a high opinion of yourself. You must think the sun comes up just to hear you crow.” Dallon laughs at that, but Brendon is not deterred. “The truth is, Mr. Weekes, I had so little desire to meet you that I’d actually been avoiding you. Yes, sir, you heard me, I’m sitting here without a sweetheart because I didn’t want to stumble on meeting such a vile man.”

Dallon smiles, unfortunately not offended. “I’m pleased to know that the very mention of my presence can so chiefly guide your movement. However, I am curious to know what exactly it is about me that you consider so vile.”

While Brendon is always happy to hold damning information, he’s even more happy to flaunt it. “Well, I’d heard from Margaret Chambers–she’s the run of the rumor mill–that you got expelled from West Point for dipping your wick in some ladies, and then your parents were so caught up in their own business that they kicked you out of their land so hard that you could taste the dewdrops on their boots.”

“Did she really say all that?”

“I may have embellished some details.”

“Well, in any case, you can rest assured that my expulsion from West Point had _nothing_ to do with ladies. I suppose the rest is quite accurate.”

“So you really did go to West Point then?” Brendon asks, a genuine question leaking through his otherwise impermeable mask of indifference towards the man.

“Of course. I studied there almost four years–not that I think it helped me any.”

Brendon ignores the last part of his statement. “Are you excited for the war then? To go into battle? My brothers say the war is coming right around the corner, any day now. They’re going to fight to protect the South, and I would too, if my mother would allow it. She says tha–”

“No. You–sorry what was your name?” Dallon interrupts.

“A quarter of an hour you’ve been talking to me and you don’t even know my name? You are a despicable man, Mr. Weekes. I’ll have you know that my name is Brendon Urie and–”

“Brendon,” he interrupts again, “do _not_ fight in the war. I would encourage you to ask your brothers to do the same, if you can. This war is indeed inevitable, and as is the Confederacy’s loss. I’ve been to the North, I’ve seen their boundless supply of weapons, and their inexhaustible stock of worthy generals. They have the ability to overpower, overthrow, and overwhelm us in every respect. If I can, I certainly hope to avoid the draft. I beg that you do the same, Brendon, as it will only leave you and your family in misery.”

Brendon is stunned into silence by Dallon’s sudden transition into a completely humorless tone. However, his defiant nature will never allow another to have neither the final nor the most poignant word.

“Avoid the draft? What kind of man do you take me for?”

“A man who values his own life and that of his family more than some meaningless pride, I would hope.” Dallon responds, voice wrought with desperation. Finally getting some genuine emotion out of the man, Brendon tries to push him as far as he can.

“Well, I wasn’t going to before, but certainly now–should the time come–I will consider myself a part of the Confederate Army.” Brendon feels proud as Dallon casts his head down in sorrow. “Knowing that people like you exist, low enough to avoid fighting for the country _on whose land you reside_ , I feel now that I have an obligation to do my part.” Brendon turns around and stands up, facing the crowd of guests below him.

“I, Brendon Urie,” he shouts, “officially declare myself a part of the Confederate Army! When the time comes, I will rise with the rest of you to defeat the totalitarianism and oppression of the North!” The men cheer boisterously in response while the women politely clap. Brendon turns back to see Dallon in a new state of agony, now lying with his back to the ground.

“You know this will not end well, don’t you?” Dallon says, not looking at Brendon.

“I know nothing of the sort.” He walks over to Dallon and grabs ahold of his hand, “Now, get up. I don’t want to be responsible for your dirtying your coat.” Dallon chuckles at that. Brendon brushes the dirt off his back as he sits up.

“Thank you.”

Brendon says nothing for a moment. “That’s it? Aren’t you going to lecture me about what I’ve just done?”

Dallon smiles. “I won’t encourage you to break a promise.”

“Brendon!” comes a call from below. “What are you doing up there? Come join the celebration!”

Dallon looks up at Brendon, who is still far too excited from his declaration to sit. “I suppose you should go down to them, then.

“I suppose I should,” Brendon says, turning to walk down the hill.

“Oh, and, Brendon?”

“Yes?”

“Shave those whiskers off as soon as you can, they look terrible on you.”

“I won’t! And they don’t!”

-

After a particularly celebratory barbecue, the entire throng of guests are led back into the main hall of the estate, where Mr. Wentz allegedly has some important news to announce. Brendon hasn’t quite yet recovered from the euphoria of his sudden veneration, but he does look up at where Mr. Wentz is standing in case this announcement does happen to be relevant to him. Dallon is nowhere in sight, but Brendon decides that that doesn’t matter.

“Thank you all for your rapt attention. I’ve just received word that General Lee has called for troops, so I–” Mr. Wentz’s speech is interrupted by cries of war, joyous from the men and hesitant from the women. Brendon feels the man beside him wrap an arm around his shoulder in celebration, but he continues to stare at Mr. Wentz.

“War…” Brendon whispers before untangling himself from the man’s grip and making his way through the commotion to one of the many bedrooms. “I can’t die. I’ve hardly lived, I can’t die already,” he says to himself in the empty room. He continues to wallow in his sorrow for several minutes.

“Why is it that every time I see you alone you’re in a crumpled mess on the ground?”

Brendon hadn’t noticed that he’d sat down. After a short procedure of wiping his eyes and gathering himself, he looks up at the source of the familiar voice. And then up even higher.

“Why is it that every time we meet you scare me half to death?”

Dallon laughs. “Touche, Brendon. But really, what has you down? It couldn’t possibly be the war, which you were so very excited about mere hours ago?”

“No. Of course it’s not the war. Why, to think that, you must not have the sense God gave a goose,” Brendon says, eyes downcast. Dallon stays silent, apparently not allowing Brendon to escape the question. “I just… was hoping to live my life completely before I would have to die.”

At that, Dallon sighs and leans against the doorway. “Well, you know, it is your own recalcitrance that brought you to this point.”

Tears threaten Brendon’s cheeks. “No! Brought me to _what_ point? I’m fine. I’ll just have to live my life a bit faster, that’s all. In fact,” he stands up and storms past Dallon with a manic smile, “I need to speak to Margaret right now.”

Brendon continues back to the main hall, walking as fast as he can while still maintaining his dignity. The boisterous celebration hasn’t let up, but he’s able nonetheless to find Margaret among the crowd.

“Miss Margaret Chambers!” he yells, “Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Margaret brings a hand to her lips and gasps, tears instantly spilling from her eyes. “Yes! Brendon Urie, I would be delighted! I’ve admired you for–”

“We must schedule the wedding as soon as possible, before I am deployed.

“Really? I would wait for you regardless, of course, but it makes me so happy that you wish to be married immediately. Brendon, I am just so–”

“I’m off to find a minister.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said at the beginning, in case you couldn't tell, Margaret Chambers will be pointless.
> 
> Also, since you made it to the end of this fic, good job and thank you. I now have to ask if anyone would be interested in betaing upcoming chapters of this fic. I'm mostly looking for someone to make sure that it's all understandable and flows well, but it would also be nice to have someone to bounce ideas off of. So, if anyone's interested... pls.
> 
> If you want to contact me for any reason whatsoever (betaing or otherwise): abrubag.tumblr.com
> 
> Or just comment here, I’m not picky.


End file.
